


A Shattered Angel & A Broken Fist

by WolffyLuna



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, overly tagged
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sanguinius didn't die on board the Vengeful Spirit?</p><p>Warning: Canon character death and canon typical violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Vengeful Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been abandoned. While there is a chance that this fic may be updated in the future, canon moving on and my writing improving means that I would have to rework this fic from the ground up. Maybe someday in the future that will happen, but as of now, go into this fic knowing that this is all there will be.

_Damn Sorcery._

Sanguinius didn’t normally swear at all, even in his head. But this was probably as appropriate a time as there ever was going to be. The Imperium was falling apart. Institutions and ideals crumbled as if hit with cyclonic torpedoes. Even the simplest and strongest codes, like the brotherhood of the Astartes, were ash now.

Sanguinius, while not sanguine about it, had come to terms with this. The Imperium was falling apart, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. All he could do was limit the damage. Make it so enough of the Imperium remained that it could survive.

Today was the day where he could do that. Today was the day that decided the difference between a pyrrhic victory and a crushing defeat. Sanguinius had seen it, he knew it. He had to help swing the balance. He wasn’t worried about having to sacrifice himself; that was what you were meant to do. And if sacrificing himself would swing the balance, well, he had to swing the balance.

Sanguinius stalked through the corridors of the Vengeful Spirit like an injured lion: regal, and in some ways less dangerous because of his injuries, and in some ways more, because of his desperation. Thankfully, most of the Sons of Horus fought elsewhere on the ship, against their own kind; his wings and his height made him stick out like a sore thumb. He could probably kill them, but it would expend energy he didn't have. Bruises covered his back and the bony part of his wings, and every step felt like walking up a steep hill. Tiredness almost overcame him; every muscle trying to pull him down to the ground. He tried to dismiss it as more of Horus’ foul sorcery, but he knew that wasn't the whole story. The Siege of Terra had been exhausting, the last few days more so, and the botched teleport meant even more hard, exhausting fighting.

A crackle in his vox-piece signalled the start of a new message. It was static-y and distorted, but Sanguinius could have recognised the voice anywhere.

"... Fists veterans... Linked up... Moving on fr... Embarkation deck... Heavy casualties... Apothecary... Dead... Moving t... Lupercal's Court..."

He tilted his head a little closer to the vox transmitter on his power armour's neck piece. "Good to know, Dorn. I have found no surviving Blood Angels yet. All so far seem to have been killed by Sons of Horus marines or teleported into walls. I am nearly at Lupercal's Court, and we don't have the time for me to wait for you when I reach there. I’ll  engage Horus. The Emperor Protects."

Distorted words that may have been an acknowledgement crackled through the piece.  

 

Sanguinius continued along the strangely quiet corridors. Every step he took increased the feeling of unnameable dread, like someone slowly draping a shroud over him as he walked. As he got closer to the Court, the ever present spiked wheels started to be adorned with crucified guardsmen and Custodes.

It seemed like hours before he came across it. He didn’t think it should’ve logically taken this long, but his armour’s chronometer jinked too wildly for him to before sure either way.

He stood in front of the door, with leering faces shifting and struggling to break the confines of the frame. The door itself dwarfed even him.

He checked his grip on his longsword and kicked it down.

Lupercal’s Court had changed since he had last seen it. He remembered it as like a court of law, with the judge sitting in front of a star field. Now, it was more like the court of a demented ruler.  All the benches had been removed. Dead and mutilated Custodes, Astartes and guardsmen littered the floor. The massive window at the back remained, but it now showed a panorama of Terra’s destruction. The judge’s seat had been replaced with a carved throne of grey wood and bone.

Though the change to the room was the least noticeable change of them all.

There he was, Horus, his brother, standing there and smirking as if he had been waiting for Sanguinius to arrive. He looked nothing like what Sanguinius remembered him as. The dark light of the warp cloaked and concealed him, and all his regalness, kindness and brotherliness seemed to have disappeared.

"My brother, I can give you one last chance. Turn away from all of this, reject it, and you can be forgiven," Sanguinius said, as he slowly walked toward the stage Horus was standing on. “I can convince Father, and you can help rebuild the Imperium.”

Horus walked down the steps off the stage. "Oh Sanguinius, ever forgiving, ever loyal. Considering you are willing to forgive me, I am willing to offer you a place at my side. Forsake our father, the lying Emperor, and join with me at my right hand. " Horus paused to let it sink in. "Though I know you would never accept that offer. Neither will I accept yours. I will never rejoin this empire of lies, to be chained to a foolish tyrant."

“So it ends like this.”

Horus nodded. “It is sad to see our close brotherhood end like this, but it really ended a long time ago. All that’s for us left now is to try kill each other.”

Sanguinius charged at Horus and swiped straight across his chest plate.

Horus threw his lightning claws up to parry.

Something forced Sanguinius to his knees before he could launch his second strike. His sight faded until all he could see was complete blackness. A presence wailed in his ears, screaming why he had killed so many people and did not feel guilty.

But most of all, it hurt. Electric charge flew across his wings and his whole body burned. He felt like every cell in his body was being slowly and painfully sucked dry. Cold metal hands wrapped around his neck, gently at first, then closing in tight to throttle him. Sanguinius struggled for all he was worth, his arms flailing desperately and his white wings flapping like an injured bird.

"Calm now, brother. You're only dying. It’ll be quiet soon." His brother's voice was warmer, more like it had been before he betrayed the Emperor. Sanguinius heard it, but instead of settling he struggled even more, his face turning red as failed to breathe.

Horus tossed him aside just as he thought he was going to die. He skidded across the floor, landing sideways in the fetal position with his left wing draped over him like a blanket. He breathed in shuddering gasps as looked up to see what had caused Horus to let go.

The Emperor stood in the doorway.

Sanguinius smiled. Reinforcement had arrived! He felt like he needed to stand, pick up his sword and rejoin the fight with his father, but he couldn't. His arms and legs had forgotten how to stand up.

As the Emperor and Horus traded blows, Sanguinius faded in and out of reality. One moment all sight and sound was superimposed by the blackness and the wailing, the next moment everything would be all too clear and all too bright.

Sanguinius barely took in anything of the climactic battle, didn't understand anything. Breathing was too high a priority, and it took all his effort and willpower. His eyes watered, blurring everything; partially because of the horrible pain inflicted on him earlier, and partially because he forgot to blink.

At the end Sanguinius saw Horus slumped on the ground: The Emperor barely standing, missing and eye and an arm; and a dead guardsman laying between them. Horus' eyes were wide and tears were streaming down his face. He spoke so quietly you could barely hear his words: "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I'm sorry..."

The Emperor, tears pricking his own eyes, just shook his head. A bright light seared through the room and all that was left of the traitorous Warmaster was a pile of ash.

The Emperor fell face first onto the floor.

Rogal Dorn, ten or so Imperial Fists veterans, a dozen Custodes and three Blood Angels veterans ran in. Rogal Dorn ran to the Emperor as the Blood Angels rushed over to their wounded Primarch. Working together, they somehow managed to get Sanguinius standing up.

Sanguinius shook all over and he held his wings and arms out to keep himself balanced.

"What happened here? Sire, are you okay?" one of the Blood Angels asked.

"Thank you, my sons," was all Sanguinius managed to murmur, his eyes closed and his arms still out.

"What happened, father? We felt... something happen to you. It was like what happened at Signus, but far worse. The Fists thought we had gone crazy."

"Perhaps it is better that I tell you when I – I mean we, are feeling clearer headed." Sanguinius opened his eyes and smiled weakly.

Rogal Dorn stood up, carrying the Emperor in his arms. "Brother, we need to teleport back to the Palace immediately."

Sanguinius nodded weakly as Dorn marched out of the room. He stumbled after his brother, the Blood Angels veterans still somehow holding him upright. Normally he would have brushed them off, but right now he was too weak to even push them away.

Halfway down a corridor, Dorn nodded to one of his veterans. In a flash of bright light and a rush of displaced air, they all teleported back to the central room of the Imperial Palace.

Rogal Dorn pushed passed the milling Custodes and ran to the Golden Throne.

Slowly, the Blood Angels holding Sanguinius up let go of him. After a few frightening wobbles, Sanguinius managed to stand unaided. “Thanks, again,” he said.

A crowd of Blood Angels came back from the fighting on the walls.

“What happened?”

“Did we win? Or are we still fighting?”

“It happened again. Why did it happen again?”

“Lord, are you alright? You look terrible...”

The sea of noise sent Sanguinius reeling. He nodded in answer to every question, regardless of the actual answer.

‘Quiet, please. Our father needs some space and quiet,” said one of the veterans from the Spirit.

Sanguinius closed his eyes, trying to ignore the fact the floor felt like it was rocking and everything looked like a dark and grainy pict. 

Then, without warning, The Loyal Angel collapsed into a heap on the ground.


	2. The Golden Throne

Rogal Dorn stole a glance at the Golden Throne where the Emperor of Mankind was interred, half-alive and half dead. For one moment, he half expected him to be seated there as he had been in life, leaning forward in contemplation, and occasionally murmuring something to Malcador the Sigillite. Now the Emperor just looked like a bloody corpse chained to an overly ornate device and the Sigillite of Terra was a pile of dust that had been swept away by cleaning servitors. It struck him as profoundly wrong that the Emperor, his father, was in such a state; Dorn felt that Emperor should look regal, even in death, but instead he had no skin and was missing an arm and eye.

Dorn turned away to walk across the inner sanctum to find his brother.

He needed to pass on the Emperor's last words to Sanguinius. His brother had seemingly vanished after the teleportation, and he was fairly certain that Sanguinius wouldn't have heard his father's last words from wherever he happened to be skulking around. The Emperor was a mighty psyker, but his last words seemed very much physical, as if all his psychic power had been sapped during his confrontation with Horus.

If only he had been there sooner, his father might not be dead.

Rogal Dorn shook his head. He couldn't show emotion, at least not now. There were too many people, and he had to be stoic. The mighty Primarch of the Imperial Fists should only be feeling a tiny bit distressed about the Emperor, not guilty. He nearly tripped over a bank of cogitator-servers because he was so caught up in his thoughts.

A Blood Angels marine paced around the banks of servers, obviously looking for something. He was an ordinary marine, without any real ranks or honours. His eyes lit up when he found Rogal Dorn striding across to the other side of the sanctum. "Sir? May I speak to you?"

Dorn span on his heels and glared at the marine.

The marine shrank away and was about to apologise when Rogal Dorn spoke.

"Where is my brother?"

The marine gulped. "Sanguinius? He is over in the medical wing."

Rogal Dorn nodded and strode off again, this time in the direction of the medical wing. It was just a large, clear space that happened to be a rather convenient place to keep the medics and the wounded. He was expecting his brother to be wandering around there, giving comfort to the dying. It was the sort of thing Sanguinius did.

It seemed like at least half the Blood Angels legion had gathered around the medical wing, all whispering and worrying. Dorn paid them little mind; if the Imperium's finest assault force wanted to go soft, that was none of his business. "They're even more sensitive than their father," he growled underneath his breath.

The crowds parted to let the gloomy Primarch pass through as he searched for his brother.

Rogal was about to give up and look elsewhere when he glanced at the floor. There he was, his brother, sprawled awkwardly as if he had been dragged over there. A small army of Sanguinary Priests were kneeling over their Primarch, desperately trying to work out something constructive they could do.

"What’s going on here?" Rogal Dorn asked.

One of the sanguinary priests looked up at him and shrugged.

Sanguinius stirred, blinked twice, then lifted himself half off the floor. "Brother, you seem troubled. Do you bring dire news?"

"The Emperor is dead," Rogal Dorn said curtly.

Sanguinius glanced over at the Golden Throne and shook his head. "Our father is not dead. His body may be all but destroyed, but his mind and soul are still there, and they are quite alive." Sanguinius turned his head to look at the Throne again before forcibly averting his eyes.

"I have little time for whatever you see with your witch-sight..." Dorn replied. Sanguinius visibly flinched at accusation of witchery. "... But for all practical purposes, the Emperor is dead. If it was not for the timely alteration of the Golden Throne, his mind and soul would most likely be dead as well." Dorn nearly mentioned that if his troops hadn't gotten bogged down on the embarkation decks, even the Emperor's body might be alive as well. He stopped himself however. He had to remain unemotional.

"Is there something you wish to speak about privately, brother?" Sanguinius said, as if reading his mind. Dorn just shook his head. "Anyway, I have a question to ask. Have we won?"

"We have, father," chimed in one of the sanguinary priests. "The traitors fled like cowards against the wrath of the Blood Angels." Sanguinius nodded and started to lower himself back to the ground.

"Were you injured by Horus?" Dorn asked.

"Let us just say the Magnus is not the only Primarch to have transgressed the edicts of Nikaea and leave it at that." He paused. “You should probably attend to your sons. I know I will have to."

"I can tell you our father's last words later, if you wish," Dorn said as he turned around to leave.

Sanguinius lifted himself up again. "Maybe you should tell me now, while I’m still awake."

 

***

 

Dorn headed back to the Throne. He knew should be making things look better for the arrival of the Wolves and Angels, make it look like the won and were celebrating, but... He didn’t feel like it. And making it look like they were celebrating, like he was celebrating, would be a lie. He mourned, he didn’t celebrate. No one celebrated, everyone either died, healed or mourned.

He wanted to see his Father one last time. One last time before he convinced himself his father was dead, so he didn’t have to look at him any more because who looks at dead people? He didn’t want to see his Father any more. All his Father’s dignity had been stripped away.

Even The Golden Throne, which had been a seat of governance and symbol of hope, was now just the resting place of someone who couldn’t afford to die fully.

“Sir,” buzzed a mechanical voice.

Dorn looked down to the mechanicum adept at his feet. “We are about to put Him in stasis. Would you like to speak to Him one last time?”

Dorn tried to say something dignified, something that didn’t make him sound vulnerable. He failed. “Can He hear me?”

“Unknown.”

Dorn nodded and walked up the steps to the Throne proper. This close, he could see how His exposed muscles were drying. Even his face seemed different; it no longer changed in aspect, it seemed stuck on one blank visage.  

Dorn looked into the Emperor’s eyes, or rather, tried to. Someone had closed his one remaining eye. He did it, he remembered. As he fought to save his father, he closed his eye for him.

He laid his hand on his father’s. He didn’t know what to say. “I’ll miss you,” was what he finally decided upon. With that, he marched down the stairs and then towards the Eternity Gate. He closed his eyes, hoping it would block any tears.

He needed to be the stoic son.


	3. The Memorial

Sanguinius stood in front of the wall. He stood back a few metres, watching people, astartes, guardsmen,  stick strips of paper to it. The papers, with names and ranks written on, overlapped each other and covered almost the entire wall. He looked at the names. Many were missing, he noticed, and there was a whole category of combatants that seemed to have been skipped.

Dorn walked over to Sanguinius, stood next to him and crossed his arms. “I see you’re standing up now.” 

“I have been for a while.” And his muscles were already complaining. 

“So you’re recovered then?” Rogal asked. 

“I don’t think this is the sort of injury that you can ever fully recover from. And I don’t think my sons ever will either.” 

Rogal turned to him, looking confused. 

“I’ll talk about it if you talk about what’s bothering you.” 

Dorn now looked even more confused, and maybe a little offended. 

Sanguinius gave him a sideways glance and fluffed his wings. “I don’t have to be a psyker to notice you seem vulnerable, brother.” 

“I’m might talk to you about it, but not here.”

Sanguinius nodded. 

They stood together in silence. Sanguinius could feel Dorn staring at the wall. 

“I don’t think there’s enough space to write all these names,” said Dorn. 

Sanguinius stopped himself from adding ‘especially considering how much of the palace no longer exists.’ He had never known Dorn to appreciate black humour. 

“And there’s a lot missing.” 

Dorn nodded. “You should add any you know. It would be a big help.”

“There’s only one missing name who I am sure is a casualty.”

“If they haven’t been added yet, you’re possible the only person to know." 

“I should get some paper then.”

 

***

 

Sanguinius sat on the edge of a balcony wall. The anabatic wind wind throw up ash and dust from the rubble at the foot of the Palace. Earlier in the siege, the dust covering him would have made him feel dirty, but now it seemed almost natural. He stared out at the sky, watching the swirl and play of the storm clouds.

Sanguinius heard the the soft thud of Rogal’s boots as he walked out onto the balcony.

“I’d tell you not to sit on that ledge, but I know you can catch yourself." 

Sanguinius breathed out harshly in lieu of a laugh. “Good to see you, brother.”

Dorn stopped next to Sanguinius. He stared out into the cloud system for a few seconds before he spoke. “I’m ready to talk now.” He paused again. “You go first.”

Sanguinius sighed. “It was painful. And not in a way that's either to describe either. It’s not an ache, a stab or a throb; it feels most like being electrocuted. Electrocuted forever, with the grease of the warp trying to make you think you’re in the wrong. It makes you feel weak, it makes you feel angry, and sometimes, it make you feel like it’s right. 

“But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is the fact that it’s affecting my sons. When Horus cast that spell, a little bit of it got to them. They got the anger and the pain. It may have been what finally drove the traitors back, but it doesn’t make it any less horrible for them. All of the Blood Angels I have spoken to have described it as like what happened at Signus Prime, but in some ways worse. You wouldn’t know the significance of that, but that was my Legion’s darkest hour, until now.

“It’s still affecting them now, days after. I can see it, and they’ve told me themselves. They’re not coping.

“I’m a Primarch. I’m strong. I can cope. I was built to withstand the likes of this. This was our purpose. They are Space Marines. Yes, they’re strong, but they’re not meant to cope with this. Even a dim shadow of my experience, passed on through me, is more than what they were made to cope with. That’s why they’re not coping.”

Sanguinius blinked, trying to force back tears threatening to break free. “I worry about them. Maybe time will be the great healer of all wounds, but I worry that they won’t be. I worry that they’ll forever be broken, and not be able to put themselves back together. 

“Even more than they were before,” he whispered to himself. 

Sanguinius looked at Dorn, hoping he hadn’t heard.

Dorn still stared out into the storm system.

Sanguinius still wasn’t sure he hadn’t heard, he probably had heard. Dorn had good ears, and contrary to popular belief, good tact. People believed that an inability to lie and an inability to not answer direct questions precluded from tact, but Sanguinius did not believe so. 

“Your turn now, Dorn.”

“I look at the Palace, the one I built, and I see a sacrifice too great. I look at the Imperium, and I see the same thing. Looking at them, I see a necessary sacrifice. This,” he gestured encompassingly, “This was necessary to win the war. 

“But in the same way, it can never be rebuilt again. I wonder if this was too much to give up. I wonder if there was a better way. I wonder if this was too much sacrifice for so little achievement. 

“Also, The Emperor died because I couldn’t fight well enough. His death is my fault.”

“You’re much terser than I am.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it. Especially the last part.” Dorn gripped the ledge. Sanguinius though he could see spiderweb cracks start to form in it. 

“You didn’t find talking about it helped?” 

Dorn shook his head. “Only a little. Maybe it helped you more. Anyway, there are more important things than how I feel.” 

“How you feel is important.” 

Dorn looked away from Sanguinius. 

“Dorn, look at me: How you feel is important. It is – at least – important because we need you in your best state of mind if we are to recover from this. I understand you’re grieving, we all are, but you never finish grieving and heal if you don’t acknowledge your emotions and how they affect you. 

“Maybe talking doesn’t work for you, but you should still look after yourself. I know I’m not one to talk, but still. You should try. We are ideals, we should try to live up to them.” 

Sanguinius didn’t know where this outburst of his came from. He knew what he said rang true, but it still sounded a little forceful to him. But then again, he knew Dorn didn’t take to dancing around the subject. Maybe this was the best way to get him to understand. Or maybe it might make him feel worse. 

Dorn nodded. “You might be right. I’ve got things to do, I’ve got to go.” And with that, Dorn walked away.

 

***

 

Dorn walked through the corridor of names. As he walked past, he noticed a single slip. It had two noticeable qualities: the name, and the handwriting. He could have recognised that handwriting anywhere. The name, even more so. 

In the neat, flowing handwriting of Sanguinius, a name and rank were written. 

_Horus Lupercal – Warmaster, Primarch of the XVI Legion_


	4. Lions' Gate

“Sir!” Mkani Kano yelled as he caught up with Sanguinius.

“Yes?” Sanguinius shortened his stride so his son didn’t have to sprint to keep up. He could see that his son’s limp was better, but was still bad enough that sprinting would be a bad idea.

“News from the astropaths: The Dark Angels and the Space Wolves have turned around to give chase to the traitors, the Ultramarines are still landing on Terra as planned.”

“So I’ll only be greeting one of my brothers. That’s a shame, though I can see why.”

Kano nodded. “If you’ll excuse me sir?”

Sanguinius waved him off. “You are excused.”

Kano nodded again, and left.

Sanguinius stepped out onto the main landing ground of Lion’s Gate. Dus and exhaust filled the air, and glare from the sun glinted off every metallic surface. The particulate started to cover his wings,  turning them into a muddy grey. He could see Guilliman’s Thunderhawk up in the sky.

Rogal Dorn strode out . It wasn’t his normal ‘I am walking as efficiently as I can, because efficiency is one of my things’ stride, it was his ‘I am angry, so I shall stride in an aggressive manner’ stride.

Sanguinius barely turned his head. “This is about the paper, isn’t it?”

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” Dorn stopped beside Sanguinius. He scowled, deepening the lines of his already creased face.

Sanguinius found himself scowling back. “I expected you to notice. I would worry if you didn’t.”

“I would worry that you sympathise with him.”

Sanguinius had to repress a sneer.“You can have sympathy for someone and disagree with them. Anyway, you did not see him die.”

“I fail how to see how his death is supposed to be anything but a good thing.”

“You did not see him die,” Sanguinius growled. He breathed in deeply, to try and calm himself down. It helped only a little. “We shouldn’t fight now. You wouldn’t want us to look disunified in front of Guilliman.”

The thunderhawk started to land.

“I’ll talk to you about this later.”

The thunderhawk skidded to a halt and opened its doors.

“Brothers!” Roboute said as he walked out.

Sanguinius smiled, trying to look like he hadn’t just been in an argument.

Guilliman walked over to Dorn. He hugged Dorn and clapped him on the back twice.

Dorn returned the gesture. “It’s good to see you, Roboute.”

Roboute nodded before walking over to Sanguinius and hugging him as well.

Sanguinius lifted his wings out of the way and hugged back. It was short and somewhat awkward; power armour was not made for ease of hugging.  

Roboute let go and stepped back a few paces. “I see you’ve managed to rout the traitors. I just hope my Legion and I can help with the reconstruction.”

“I’ll get Dorn to fill you in, if he’s willing. I have to attend to my sons.” Sanguinius turned on his heel and walked back through the archway. He breathed in deeply and slowly, trying to calm himself more. His anger felt stuck to him, like the dust, so even if he washed it off it the feeling of it remained.

He had harnessed his anger before, used it as a tool. This anger felt different, it felt corrupt. It felt almost like a shadow of what he felt when Horus attacked.

When he talked with his his sons about how they felt during Horus’ sorcery, they described an all-consuming rage, which you lost yourself in, and it felt like you could never get out. It felt tainted, they said, that it would turn them into a monster. Like Signus Prime.

Was that the source of his anger now? Was this a faint reflection of that? And to feel it towards Dorn... Sanguinius shook his head. This was not good.

 

***

 

Roboute read through the data slate. “Were you two arguing?”

“What?” asked Dorn.

Hot air from the landing thunderhawks washed over them, and the heavy footfalls of disembarking Ultramarines thudded through spaceport.

“Were you and Sanguinius arguing?” Guilliman could understand why Dorn seemed confused. People tended to underestimate him, especially when it came to social matters. They tended to forget that he was a master diplomat and that yes, he could tell when two people were angry with each other.

“Yes, but it was minor. As you can see–”

“Yes, it was definitely minor, because Sanguinius definitely did not leave in a huff,” Guilliman deadpanned. “Don’t try and fool me, brother, I am not an idiot. I can tell when people are angry, and I know that neither you nor Sanguinius get angry over minor things. Now, if you would be so kind, tell me what you arguing about.”

“There’s a wall.It has pieces of paper with the names of the fallen on them. It’s there so the engravers have a list of casualties for the memorials.”

“Yes...”

“He put the name of the Archtraitor on there.”

“You mean Horus.”

“Yes. When I confronted Sanguinius about it, he admitted to sympathising with him. Then he said we should stop arguing so we didn’t look disunified.”

Guilliman nodded.

“Now you know,” Dorn said, “Would you be willing to continue discussing the best use for your Legion?”

“Yes, of course. Now, if we get the Ninth Chapter to...”

 

***

 

Roboute found Sanguinius flying in an abandoned aviary. He stepped carefully to avoid accidentally crushing a fairy wren. The magpie-larks fled to the highest eucalypts when they saw Guilliman.

“Brother! I wish to talk to you!” Roboute shouted.

Sanguinius landed and wedged himself in the low fork of a eucalypt. “What about?” He frowned while looking over his brother.

“I talked with Dorn. Apparently you two had an argument, and while I know Dorn does not lie, I wanted to hear your side of the story.”

Sanguinius tensed. “Okay.”

“Did you put Horus’ name one the Memorial draft wall?”

“Yes. He was a casualty. Does this conversation need to happen now?”

“I would like to have the information as soon as possible, if you don’t mind. You said you sympathised with him?”

“Yes. Dorn doesn’t understand. I don’t mean I agree with him. I mean I feel sorry for him.”

Guilliman nodded. Sanguinius seemed to be getting tenser and tenser, but Guilliman couldn’t quite put a finger on why. He had never known Sanguinius to be this averse to difficult conversations. “You’re allowed not to answer this question, but why did you add his name? Other than him being dead, of course.”

“I saw him die.”

“So it was just because he died.”

Sanguinius growled.  Guilliman’s eyes widened in shock. “I saw him die. You did not said Sanguinius.”

Guilliman raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I know, that’s why I’m asking you. I didn’t see him die, so I don’t know how his death would have changed your opinion.”

Sanguinius closed his eyes and sighed, relaxing fractionally. “Just before he died, he apologised and begged for forgiveness. He regretted his betrayal. He died as the old Horus. So when he died, the Archtraitor died, but so did Horus.”

“And Horus deserves a memorial.”

Sanguinius opened his eyes. “Yes.”

“Do you mind if I tell that to Dorn?”

“I don’t mind.”

Guilliman turned to leave, but Sanguinius interrupted him. “May I apologise for growling at you?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve just been feeling... tense, recently. And I’ve been taking out on everyone. Sorry about that.”

“A holdover from the psychic injury?”

Sanguinius cocked his head.

“Oh, I heard you got a psychic injury, and I’ve heard, from other sources, that psychic injuries can make you feel out of character.”

“Yeah, that’s the cause. It’s just... stuck, the out-of-character-ness” Sanguinius grinned nervously, showing his pointed teeth.

“Should I tell Dorn that too?”

Sanguinius shook his. “He already knows.”

“Okay then.” Roboute turned around, and left the aviary.


	5. The Black Rage

Roboute deleted the last sentence and put the data slate down. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He felt too stressed to write. Neither Sanguinius nor Dorn, nor their Legions when you thought about it, were coping. Which left him to rebuild the Imperium single-handedly. He knew it was an exaggeration, but it still felt like that.

Anyway, he had been the responsible one before. With time, and maybe a little gentle prodding, he could get Dorn and Sanguinius fit enough to help. Then he could have a break. Maybe, if they could get the Imperium running itself, he could have a holiday.

Probably not.

A knock at the door broke him out of his thoughts. “Come in!”

An Ultramarine opened the door.

“Ah, Thiel, I just called you in so I could congratulate you on becoming a captain.”

Aeonid Thiel looked puzzled. “From what I heard, you were the one who picked me as captain. And there was a ceremony. A large one. Why did you need to congratulate me again?”

“I like to congratulate each new captain privately, as well.”

Thiel still looked puzzled.

“Well, anyway, congratulations.” Guilliman extended his hand in the pre-unity fashion.

Thiel grasped his hand and shook it twice. “I’ll take my leave now, sire.”

Guilliman held up his hand. “Actually, I also wanted to ask you how the rubble clearing at Dhawalagiri  is going.”

“It’s on schedule, last I checked. I have no clue why we and the Blood Angels are doing it, it seems like something the Fists would be better at.”

There was a pause, and Thiel got a particular look on his face.

“You were going to say something,” Guilliman said.

“Hmm?”

“You were going to say something, Captain.”

“It’s not important.”

“I would rather you say something dumb when it’s just me and you, instead of in public like you usually do. Plus, you never know what information is important.”

“Can Astartes get drunk?”

“I believe the Space Wolves have done so, but I wouldn’t advise attempting to intoxicate yourself. We don’t have the time.”

“I wasn’t planning too, it’s just the Blood Angels seem a bit... drunk.”

“How so?”

Thiel waved his hand in front of his face. “They look unfocused, and they’re slurring their words.”

That sounded odd, to say the least. Worth investigating, thought Guilliman. “I’ll talk to Sanguinius when we have our meeting. You are dismissed, Captain.”

 

***

 

Sanguinius caught himself as he stumbled. His head ached. The walls flashed between being the walls of the Palace and the walls of the Vengeful Spirit.

He soldiered on. He had to get to the meeting, even if he just went there to say he feeling too off to be any use.

He managed to get to the door. He opened the door.

Then he saw it.

 _He_ was there.

 

***

 

Guilliman smiled as Sanguinius opened the door. “Good to see you, brother! We were just about to start the meeting without you.”

 

***

 

Horus sat there, next to Dorn, grinning. “Good to see you, brother!” he said, “We were just about to start the meeting without you.”

Sanguinius drew his sword. “What are you doing here!?” he snarled. He jerked his head over to Dorn. “What were you thinking?!”

 

***

 

“We were having a meeting. That’s why I’m here.” said Guilliman.

Dorn stood up. “Are you alright, brother?”

 

***

 

Sanguinius stalked towards Horus. “Why aren’t you dead?”

 

***

 

“I’ve never been dead. Ever.” _What’s happening to Sanguinius? What is he thinking?_ , thought Guilliman. Looking over at Dorn, he could tell he was thinking along the same lines. Guilliman stood up and, slowly, walked to Sanguinius. “Look, I can tell you don’t feel like yourself. If you just put away the sword, and calm down, we can work out what’s going, and make you feel better. Does that sound good?”

Sanguinius growled, before plunging his sword through Roboute’s chest.

Guilliman’s mind was a swirl of thoughts. At the forefront was _So this is what it feels to be stabbed through the chest_ _._ The next was _How I am going to win this? Practical: Last time I fought another Primarch in close combat, they won. Practical: I can’t hurt Sanguinius. Practical: I am unarmed. Practical: I know no practical way to win this._

Sanguinius slid his sword out and launched a flurry of blows.

Guilliman tried to block with his arms, but Sanguinius avoided his clumsy blocks every time.

Sanguinius smashed him in the face with the wrist of his wing.

Guilliman reeled back from the blow.

Sanguinius unleashed another flurry of blows.

Guilliman blocked even less successfully.

Sanguinius forced him down onto his knees.

_And this is where I get beheaded. I don’t even get an original cause of death._

Dorn ran over and tackled Sanguinius to the ground. They landed on top Guilliman, knocking him over.

Sanguinius tried to wriggle free. “What are you doing? I’m trying to kill Horus!”

“That’s not Horus!” yelled Dorn.

Guilliman crawled out from under them.

Sanguinius struggled harder, biting through Dorn’s vambrace.

Dorn grabbed Sanguinius by the hair and slammed his face into the ground, knocking him unconscious.

Dorn talked into his vox piece. “I have two injured Primarchs in Meeting Room 22. We need Apothecaries ASAP...”

Guilliman was vaguely aware of himself talking as he fell into unconsciousness.

 

***

 

Sanguinius woke up with a headache: a stinging pressure behind his eyes and tension over his forehead. He tried to lift his hand to rub his forehead, but it wouldn’t move. He opened an eye.

Innumerable chains wrapped around him tight, binding him to the bed.

He tried to wiggle out of them. _Those traitors will learn not to try and capture a Primarch!_ He was about to to try and bite his way out of the chains when he saw the ceiling.

A black aquila stood emblazoned on the white tile.

Sanguinius stopped struggling and inched his way into a sitting position.

A few minutes later, a sanguinary priest priest walked in.

“Good morning... afternoon... whatever. You’re Sahrai, right?” said Sanguinius.

The sanguinary priest picked up Sanguinius’ chart. “Yes, my name is Sahrai. How are feeling, lord?”

Sanguinius grimaced. “I have a headache and woke up to find myself chained to a bed. What’s going on?” And please tell me I didn’t try and kill someone.

“Do you remember anything from before you were here?” Sahrai said, still reading the chart.

Sanguinius went back into his memory. Everything was a fuzz, filled with vague images of the Warmaster and the Vengeful Spirit. “I’m not sure. It seems like the memories have been overwritten.”

“With what?”

“The Last Battle of Terra.”

Sahrai scribbled on the chart. “That sounds right.”

Sanguinius stomach sank. Somewhere in those memories, there was indistinct recollection of him winning the fight with Horus.“Did I kill anyone?”

“You didn’t kill anyone.”

Sanguinius breathed out a sigh of relief.

“You just tried to. Lord Guilliman is recovering from his injuries as we speak. We believe you were hallucinating, and thought the Lord Guilliman was Horus.”

Sanguinius could feel something, he wasn’t sure what, snap like a harp string. “You should kill me now,” he said quietly.

Sahrai put down the chart and pulled up a chair. “I won’t do that. Why would you want us to?”

“There are enough Primarchs trying to kill each other without adding to that number.”

“You were hallucinating, there has to be some leniency‒”

Sanguinius raised his voice. “I tried to murder someone. I know some of you are hallucinating, but none of you have tried to murder anyone!”

Sahrai hitched in a breath and rubbed his neck.

Sanguinius’ voice dropped right back down. “What happened? Sahrai, my son, what happened?”

“We, uh... collectively had a moment. We mostly hurt ourselves, but there are some Fists who were... severely injured. Some of us were more affected than others.” Sahrai sighed and lowered his head.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m so sorry about that.”

Sanguinius could hear Sahrai smiling weakly as he spoke. “It’s not your fault, it’s Horus’.”

Sanguinius looked away. “But he’s not going to be the one that’s punished.”

 

***

 

The first thing Guilliman noticed was that he was horizontal, followed shortly by the pain in his chest and the fact Dorn was looking concerned. For a moment, all he was thinking was _Why am I sideways, why does my chest hurt, and why is Dorn here?_ until it came back to him.

“How is Sanguinius?” Guilliman asked.

“He was chained up and taken to the Apothecarion. Different ward from you, of course.”

Guilliman breathed in, trying to ignore the pain. “What are we going to do with him?”

Dorn sighed. “I have no clue.”

“Similar things have happened, though. What did we do then? I mean, what happened with Konrad was similar to this, right? What were you going to do with him?”

“Before he ran away, we were going to take him to Terra, and let the Emperor decide what to do with him.”

“That’s... that’s not going to work for us.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What do you think we should do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, we can’t afford to lose anymore primarchs, but we can’t afford another one attacking us.”

“I know.”

“Neither of us have any clue what to do.”

“No, and his legion only complicates things.”

Guilliman paused. “What about his legion?”

“They did it too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they seemingly hallucinated and attacked people.”

“That does complicate things. What are we going to do?”

“I have an idea. We let this time slide, but if anyone does this again, they get executed.”

“Even Sanguinius?”

Dorn lowered his head and sighed. “Even Sanguinius.” He stood up from his chair. “I have some things to do; I’ll try to visit you later.”


	6. Too Great a Cost

Roboute Guilliman sat up in the hospital bed, doing paperwork on his data slate. It had taken far too much effort to actually get access to it. People seemed to forget he was a primarch, and yes, he could do simple paperwork while injured.

His wound was healing well, according to the apothecaries. He believed them. It still hurt, but it had scabbed over, and he could feel the tissue healing underneath. It itched. 

Sanguinius opened the door, one wing draped protectively over his chest. “May I come in?” 

Guilliman put down the data slate. “Certainly.” 

“You are allowed to tell me to go away, considering...” Sanguinius flipped his hair over his face. 

Roboute would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t think it was cute. “No, no, come in, I’d enjoy the company.” 

Sanguinius walked in the door, careful that his wings didn’t knock anything over.“I may not be the best company at the moment.” Sanguinius sat down on the chair, taking some time to arrange his wings and his skirt comfortably. “I came here to apologise.” 

“You don’t have to, it’s not your fault.” 

Sanguinius smiled like he was explaining something to a cute, if dim child. 

“Don't look at me like that. Being injured hasn’t dulled my mind.” As if he hadn’t had enough of that attitude from his own apothecaries. 

Sanguinius exhaled and looked away. “It would be one thing if I hallucinated, thought you were Horus, and then believed you when you said you weren’t. That’s not what happened.” 

“But still...” 

“Don’t make excuses for me, brother,” he said, still looking away. 

The following pause was sharp and awkward. “I had a discussion with Dorn about what to do with you and your sons,” Guilliman said, trying to break the tension. 

Sanguinius looked at his brother, face still covered in hair. “What did you decide?” 

“We decided to let this time slide, but if it happens again, we will... grant them the Emperor’s Peace.” 

Sanguinius turned back to Guilliman. “There’s no need to be coy with me. You made a sensible decision. You can be plain about it.” 

Guilliman sighed. “I still don’t want anyone executed. Especially not you. You’re important for morale. They see you as an angel. You’re even called The Angel.” 

He had other reasons for not wanting Sanguinius dead. They ranged from the tactical to the emotional. He especially didn’t want to talk about the latter, not now when anything he said could be written off as the bloodloss talking. 

Sanguinius smiled. “People do see me as an angel. They’re right, they just see me as the wrong angel. They see me as a rising angel, full of hope and goodness and promise and light. I’m not, I’m a falling angel, being pulled inexorably down, fighting to stay up, stay pure, but never going to succeed. 

“The people who see this, even they think I’m going to be the exception. They feel that I’ll win this fight against corruption against all the odds. I don’t think so. I feel – I see – myself losing and hitting the ground, becoming a fallen angel.” 

“You’re not corrupted.” 

“Anyone with witchsight would see that I am.” 

Roboute rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. “You’re not corrupted; you’re just injured.” 

Sanguinius adopted a patronising expression again.“I am injured, yes, but I am also corrupted. Corruption can be brought into you without you wanting it. It’s like an infection, or in this case, and infected wound.” 

Guilliman ignored Sanguinius’ expression; this knowledge was too interesting. “If it’s like an infection, can it be treated?” 

Sanguinius shook his head. “That’s where the analogy breaks down.” He paused and stared at his chest. “Even if you could flush it out, I think flushing it it would get rid of parts of me.” 

“So it’s gotten to the point of a metaphysical amputation.” 

“I guess if we are continuing the analogy, yes. But it’d be like amputating my brain.” He still stared at his chest. 

“There wouldn’t very much of you left.” 

“No.” 

Sanguinius paused. 

“There are two people who could do it without removing too much of me, but I don’t think we can get their help.” 

Guilliman arched an eyebrow, interested. 

“The Emperor and Magnus,” said Sanguinius, by way of an answer. 

“We can’t get either of their help, no. We’ll just have to learn how to deal with your...” Guilliman knew he should probably call it corruption, but it felt wrong to use a word like that for something that someone didn’t ask for. “...injury. We can’t lose you, not to execution or removal of your soul. It would be too great a cost.” 

*** 

Dorn stood on one of the tallest towers of the Palace, surveying the landscape below. Thin, wispy clouds obscured it, but the what could be seen through them was telling enough. The vast majority of the rubble had been cleared and moved away. This only made the damage to the Palace clearer. 

The clean, beautiful lines of huge sections of wall had been sullied by mortar and titan fire. Entire buildings, crushed to dust. Whole landmarks completely removed. 

Dorn knew logically that the damage to the Palace was extreme, but part of him couldn’t think it could be this bad. During the siege, he noticed and tallied damage to the walls, but in a strategic way, not an aesthetic one. He didn’t really think about what the end result would look like. 

He guessed part of him must have been hopeful that it wouldn’t be this bad. That it could be rebuilt. That with enough time and enough resources, he could bring it back to its former glory. 

With the evidence before him, that tiny hope shattered. It would take far more time, resources and manpower than it was worth to bring it back to a shadow of it’s former glory. 

“I was right,” Dorn said quietly. 

“About what, my lord?” asked Archamus. He walked a few paces to draw level with his liege lord. 

‘Did I speak?” 

“You did.” 

“I didn’t mean too. I was right in thinking that Palace is not rebuildable.” 

“We could always put some of the art back–” 

“On walls that no longer exist?” 

Dorn breathed out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so harsh. I’m just not sure it’s worth the effort.” 

“What would you have us do instead?” 

“I’m not sure. Pursue the traitors? I’d have to ask my brothers.” Dorn paused. Both of his brothers were in hospital, and probably not fit to ask advice of. Guilliman, maybe could give good advice now, but Sanguinius? No. “Or maybe it’s best if I work it out myself.” Dorn looked back the ruins of the Palace. Was it worth fixing? Was it worth leaving it likes? Or did both options come at too great a cost?


	7. Books and Decisions

Dorn had made his decision. Yes, now that he had thought it over, the Palace could maybe be rebuilt. But it would years, and more resources than they could afford. The Imperium, despite its wealth, couldn’t afford to create another Palace while there was a civil war raging.

(People were already saying the civil war was over. They seemed to think Terra’s safety meant the traitors ceased to be a threat. Most of the time, he found this attitude and annoying and ignorant. The rest of time, he wished he could share in the naïveté)

So, he wasn’t going to rebuild the Palace. The decision took a huge weight off his shoulders. The Imperial Fists didn’t need to rebuild the Palace, rebuild the Imperium and defend it. They could focus on one. 

They were going to pursue the traitors. Dorn knew his strengths, and he knew his legion’s. They could construct and defend, they couldn’t reorganise an empire. Even during the Great Crusade, they left that to the iterators or legions like the Word Bearers.  

There were going to defend the Imperium. The traitors would always be a threat. Not just because of their insidious ideologies. If others could wield the weapon Horus wielded against the IX, then they needed to be crushed. Removed from the face of Materium for the good of all.

He had made his decision and all that was left was to inform his brothers. Both had been let out of hospital, but if what he heard was correct, Sanguinius had seemingly disappeared. He’d just have tell Guilliman and ask him to pass it on.  

As he wandered the corridors, Dorn found Guilliman leaning against a wall, writing something on his data-slate. “Brother!” he called out. 

Roboute looked up from his data slate. “Hm?” 

Dorn walked over to Guilliman. “I need to tell you something, if you have the time right now.”

“I’m not busy.” He tapped the screen to turn off his data-slate. “I had something I needed to tell you as well.”

“You go first.” It was probably minor, Dorn thought. A clarification on one of the few things he didn’t already know. Best to clear it up quickly.

“I have some ideas on how to help the Imperium recover and run better, and I need another primarch to help me implement them. I know you have never been the best at this sort of reorganisation, but you are a good leader, and I can’t get Sanguinius’ help.”

Dorn nodded. “He’s not stable enough.” He didn’t think even that would make him better than Sanguinius at this. Then again, he had heard one of the reasons Guilliman was so successful was that he knew how to use people for their strengths. His brother knew him. If he thought he would be the best help in this situation, maybe he was.

Maybe it would be better use of him than fighting the traitors. 

Guilliman interrupted his thoughts. “It’s not just that, it’s that he doesn’t trust himself. I need someone who’s at least a little bit self-assured right now.” 

Dorn didn’t say anything. He had tact. He knew ‘I don’t trust myself’ wasn’t something his brother needed to hear. Especially with Sanguinius out action. 

Still, he couldn’t lie. The thought of saying such a thing brought a sour taste to his mouth. He didn’t trust himself. He only trusted people who could reach goals, succeed at objectives. He trusted people who didn’t fail.  

He could think of no greater failure than failing to save your own father. He couldn’t think of many worse than the destruction of one of the greatest works of humanity. 

Guilliman looked at him, trying to work out why he wasn’t replying. “Are you willing?” he asked. 

Dorn nodded. “Yes, I am.” 

“Good. What did you need to say?” 

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, and he walked away.

***

Roboute Guilliman turned his data slate back on and selected the file he was working with: _Notes Towards Martial Codification._  

He knew many things were needed to help the Imperium. This was one, he thought. 

A new system of war. The splitting of the legions. 

The Imperium was simply too big to be defended by 18 legions. It nearly encompassed the whole galaxy. Even with the legions split into Expeditionary Fleets, there simply weren’t enough Astartes forces. 

This was his first and simplest argument.

His second was not complicated, but it was much harder to argue. You couldn’t use it without saying ‘I don’t trust you.’

100,000 space marines was too much responsibility for one man, Primarch or not. It was far too much power. Splitting the legions was the best way to prevent something like this civil war happening again. To prevent _someone_ like Horus happening again. 

Horus. Charismatic. Clever. In charge of many people. Corrupted.  

He couldn’t compare anyone to Horus. He couldn’t think of anyone who could be like him. No one was such a shining star. No one was such a fallen wretch.  

But until recently, he couldn’t think of Astartes fighting Astartes. He had to plan for the unthinkable.  

He had to prevent the unthinkable.

He hoped Dorn would understand. He probably would, Guilliman thought. Dorn wouldn’t just hear ‘I don’t trust you.’ He’d never known Dorn to be like that. Defensive about his father? Yes. The Cheraut Incident attested to that. Defensive about himself? No, he’d never seen that. 

Still, part of him worried. 

He hoped Dorn would see the necessity. 

*** 

Sanguinius put the book down. It was the 27th so far. He hadn’t been able to find a single book about how to deal with corruption. He’d found one book, _The Astropath Transcendent’s Primer_ , that mentioned psychic injuries, but that was it. 

He had to work out how to manage his taint, if not remove it. Any other time, him being executed would be a great, but acceptable loss. But now with the number of primarchs loyal to the Throne being eight, at most, they couldn’t afford it. 

He was willing to die. He wasn’t willing to hurt the Imperium.  

Sanguinius picked up 28th book. He wasn’t hopeful about its contents. The Imperial Truth didn’t allow for idea of corruption. He had only discovered it when he saw it first hand at Signus. The public section of the Library of Leng almost certainly wouldn’t have it. 

Hang on…

Sanguinius looked up from the book. The public section wasn’t the only section. 

He stood up from the desk, and walked over to a door. He could feel a creeping unease spread through him. Little voices told him to stop, that the Emperor’s Library was for His eyes only.  

Then again, he’d never understood following the wishes of dead men. They were gone, how could they mind what the living were doing? Right now, he almost understood the wish. The Emperor had never invited him here, the fact He was dead didn’t change that. 

Near-dead, he reminded himself. He only seemed to remember the Emperor was still somewhat alive when he was near the Throne.  

Managing his corruption was a necessity. He needed to check the library in case it held the key. The Emperor didn’t need to lose another son.  

He opened the door, bracing himself. His skin tingled, still trying to tell him _No, no, you’re not allowed in there._

Another door revealed itself. A biometric scanner chimed and read him. He could hear the electric buzz of it sending it’s detail through the wires.  

Something went _ping_ , a monitor displayed the words:

**Sanguinius.**

**Access Permitted**

The door swung open. Sanguinius walked, treading lightly. Shelves and shelves sat in rows, whole sections lit with the blue of stasis.  

He smelled Him. Sanguinius had never noticed his father’s smell before, but now, he did. It nearly overpowered him. It wasn’t just the smell itself, but who it belonged to. The whole library smelled like him, smelled like salt water and incense. Sanguinius closed his eyes and revelled in it, just for a moment. He knew this was probably wrong. You didn’t revel in the smell of people. Still, he took the moment to revel in it, to pretend He wasn’t near-dead.  

Sanguinius opened his eyes with a sigh, and walked on. He looked along the spines of the books, trying to find a title that looked relevant. He had been searching for some minutes when he found a desk. 

It pressed its small self right up against a shelf. Sanguinius walked over to it, fingers resting lightly on the wooden top. A book sat on it, _Chaotic Corruption._ Sanguinius noticed a slip of paper peeking out the top with the words ‘ _Could this work on Horus’_ written in the Emperor’s hand. 

Sanguinius sat down on the chair and opened the book to the marked page. If it might work on Horus, it might work on him.


End file.
